Rescue me.
by Johnny Boy
Summary: Read the story, not this summary.
1.

People are always asking me if I know Tyler Durden.   
  
Of course I do. I am Tyler Durden.  
  
At least, I was.   
  
Welcome to the Wynarski Hospital for the Mentally Unstable. A top-security prison where they keep all those psychos you read about in the paper while drinking your grande latte drugged up and off the streets, so you can all go about living your happy little lives without having to worry about some poor fucker who's fed up with his quest for clear skin and perfect teeth to come running down the street with a semi automatic rifle, mowing down rows of Calvin Klein clad automatons when he snaps.   
  
Or from triggering a nation wide underground anarchist revolution and turning half of a major city into a pile of nice neat little flaming shit.   
  
I've sat here for seven months stored neatly away in this filing cabinet for the insane, living the old single serving life. Seven months. Twenty eight weeks. One hundred ninety six days. Four thousand seven hundred and four hours. This is my life, and it's going nowhere fast.   
  
Funny how things come full circle, isn't it?  
  
The doctors, and I use that term loosely, think that if they keep me drugged up on enough of their medication, it will keep Tyler from rearing his ugly head again. Maybe they're right.   
  
But probably not.   
  
Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Tyler's dead, right?  
  
No, Tyler is not dead. How could he die? He's not a physical human being the way you and I are. The rules don't apply to him. At least in my mind, where Tyler lived. No, Tyler won't be dead until I myself am six feet under, food for the worms. I don't know where I got the idea that shooting myself in the mouth would kill him. But hey, I'm insane, remember?  
  
I haven't seen Tyler since I "killed him" seven months ago. But I know he's there. I can feel him. Like that tingling sensation you get in the back of your brain when you hear your favorite song come on the radio, I could still feel Tyler, laying low in my subconscious. Waiting for the right moment to show up and rescue me. Rescue me from this padded cell. Rescue me from overpaid, know-nothing psychologists. Rescue me from white clad orderlies that get a kick out of pushing us around. Rescue me from solitary confinement. Rescue me from plastic utensils and styrofoam food trays, rescue me from the same goddamned gruel they feed me every day. Rescue me, Tyler. Rescue me.   



	2. 

+Sometimes I sit here and think. There's not much else to do in this padded prison. I think about what things would have been like if I had just went along with Tyler's plan. I sure as hell wouldn't be in here, that's for certain. Tyler had an escape all planned out. Once we had watched the city take that one step closer to economic equilibrium, laughing it up with those bald headed drones, we were supposed to take the bus they had hijacked, drive to the next city with a thriving fight club, and start all over again.   
  
Tyler had a plan. But I fucked it up. I had to be the noble little hero, sacrificing life and limb to avert the catastrophe. There was nothing I could have done. Like he said, there were ten other bombs in ten other buildings, there was nothing I could do. Yet I still acted like a self righteous little punk, and betraying the only person who really cared about me, just because I was afraid to follow through on what we had started. I was Jack's guilty conscience.   
  
As soon as the rubble hit the streets, the police knew exactly who to look for. At least, those who weren't enlisted in Tyler's army. Thanks to my dramatic little confession to Agent Stern, not only did they know exactly who had done it, but because the space monkeys had mapped out everything in those plans, including the location of Tyler's skybox seats, they knew just where to find me. Marla was questioned and released. I haven't seen her since. I'm not allowed any visitors. Most of the space monkeys scattered once they found out their leader had been thrown in the loony bin. The ones that were caught are currently serving prison sentences for arson, destruction of public property, disturbance of the peace, vandalism, and anything else the courts threw at them.   
  
Whatever.   
  
I, on the other hand, was sentenced a life of solitary confinement in this shithole. You don't exactly get off light for masterminding a scheme that turned half a city into a pile of burning debris. I was only let out of my room for one hour of exercise a day.   
  
Speaking of which....  
  
"Lets go, Mister Mayhem, time for some exercise," chuckled the wall of flesh taking up most of the doorway. He stood six foot three, with a neck about as thick as my leg and an IQ as big as my shoe size. He obviously had nothing else to take pleasure in than making bad jokes to insult the inmates. How anyone could spent time in this pit voluntarily was beyond me. I slowly glanced over at him, with one of those looks that says "Yeah, right," and "Fuck you" at the same time, before returning my gaze to the imperfections in the pale blue paint on the ceiling. Just to piss him off.  
  
I wanted to have some fun.   
  
"Hey, you got a problem hearing me, jackass? Or are you too busy talking to your imaginary friend?"  
  
"Actually, I was, Sasquach. We were just discussing how, under all that muscle, you're probably just a fuckin' pussy."   
  
Tyler's words coming out of my mouth. I could barely contain my relief at hearing them as my guest's face turned a deep shade of red.   
  
"What the fuck did you just say??" he barked as he stalked towards me.   
  
"You heard me, Chuckles. Spending five hours a day in the gym doesn't make you a man. Which I doubt you are anyway," I said to the behemoth towering over me, getting him even more riled up. I stood up, almost toe to toe with him. From this close I could tell he hadn't showered in a while. I haven't had a fight since seven months ago in that garage basement with Tyler.   
  
Far too long.   
  
He grabbed the front of my shirt with his mammoth hands, about to do some more screaming, when I drove my knee right into his family jewels.   
  
In fight club, there's no such thing as hitting below the belt.   
  
His eyes popped open as he suddenly released my shirt and gasped for breath. My fist collided with his jaw in a nasty uppercut that would have dropped a guy my size right to the floor.   
  
It barely fazed him.   
  
I managed to get in a few more blows to his face and stomach before he shook off the effects of my low blow and came after me full force. His first punch landed square in my abdomen, deflating me like a beach ball.   
  
I was out of practice.   
  
He grabbed be by the back of the neck and threw me head first into the wall. Even the foam padding didn't absorb the force he sent me flying with. In a way, it was good to feel the pain flashing through my skull, like a fond memory of the times I spent in the dank basement of Lou's Tavern.   
  
But, enough reminiscing.  
  
The big gorilla came up behind me, ready to make me pay the price for getting out of line. As soon as he was close enough, I shot my elbow back into his face, breaking his nose. He bellowed in pain as the blood came pouring out.   
  
By this time, all the racket had caught the attention of the other orderlies, who came rushing in to put an end to the brawl, three more guys the size of the hulking bag of testosterone I was fighting. There was no way I could take them all.   
  
But I sure as hell tried.   
  
By the time they were done with me, I was unconscious, but just in case I felt like starting any more trouble, they drugged me up and left me there, a bloody mess. Definitely the worst beating I've ever taken. Tyler would be proud. If that wasn't trying to hit bottom, I don't know what was.   
  
I don't know how long I lay there, slipping in and out of consciousness, when I woke up to the sound of a voice I hadn't heard in seven months, that calm, confident voice, that had always reassured me that everything would be ok.   
  
"I told ya you needed me."   
  
  



	3. 

Still sore from the beating I had taken, and with all the medication they pumped into me before they left me here for dead, I could barely keep my eyes focused, but there was no mistaking the man sitting across the room from me.   
  
"Hey, roomie."  
  
Ladies and Gentleman, Tyler Durden was back.  
  
"I'm impressed. I didn't think you would have had the balls to take those meatheads on without me around. Sure, I helped you get it started, but you didn't back down once the shit hit the fan. Not too shabby."  
  
Tyler got up from where he had been sitting on the cold floor and walked around the dark room, taking in our surroundings, the only light coming from the small window in the solid steel door.   
  
"This is one hell of a setup you've got here," he said as he looked at my tiny cell with disdain. "Bet you miss the ol' shithole on Paper Street now, huh?"  
  
"T-Tyler," I whispered, slurring my speech. I was so doped up I could barely form the words. "I'm...I'm.. sorry..." I managed to get out. And I was. Sure, I still wish that Project Mayhem hadn't gone as far as it did under Tyler's leadership, but what I had done to him was wrong. At least, that was all I could think of in my hazy, drug induced state.   
  
"Hey, man, it's all in the past. We've got some more important things to take care of right now. Besides..." He knelt down beside my bed with that trademark smirky grin on his face, "I know you didn't mean it."   
  
Up close now, he surveyed the damage done to me by the big gorilla and his buddies, and the grin slowly left his face. "Shit, man, you're really a fuckin mess..." Using all the strength and coordination I had left in me, I managed to lethargically turn my head in his direction, trying to focus my eyes long enough to look into his.   
  
"Tyler..." I said, trying to lift my arm reach over to him. "What...what are we....gonna...." I trailed off as Tyler put his hand on my shoulder.   
  
"Don't worry about that. I've got some thinking to do. You just get your rest, champ. You're gonna need it," he said. It was so strange to hear him talk like that to me again, like a friend, the way he used to be. Maybe because the last memories I had of him before he left was of Tyler Durden, the unquestioned leader of an army of space monkeys, beating the living shit out of me and holding a gun to my head.  
  
I was so scared of him then. But really, he was me, so I was only scared of myself.  
  
It still confuses me sometimes. Sometimes I still like to pretend that we're not really the same person, because it's easier to think that I'm not capable of the things Tyler was. But I can't do that for long, because lately, ever so slowly, Tyler's memories had begun to surface in my brain as my own. I could remember now some of the things I had done when I was Tyler. I remember the sensation of Marla's hot, sweaty skin underneath me as we fucked like a pair of animals on the floor of the old house. I remember the impact of the fat fuck Lou's fists on my face, and the blood flowing out of my nose and mouth. I remember flying to a dozen different cities, setting up fight clubs in mere days.  
  
Tyler stood up and walked over to the door, looking out the window. He studied the door itself for a minute, as if trying to find any weakness it might hold.   
  
"Shit," he muttered under his breath before walking back to the wall across from my bed and sitting on the floor. He obviously understood how little hope of ever escaping we had. Sort of ironic, when you think about it. One of Tyler's more famous mantras had been that losing all hope was freedom. Not anymore. Here, losing all hope would be surrendering to the fact that we might never be free again. By the look on his face, and uncharacteristic silence coming from him, I could tell he knew. He knew, because I knew.   
  
But we were going to have to forget what we knew.   
  
Because now Tyler was going to have to think of something else.   



End file.
